Sin Came Second
by Tiefling Zhai
Summary: Seth is sent to Chile to learn everything he can about the Libishomen. He wasn't expecting for the Mapuche to answer the threat in a way more ancient and dangerous than anything he could have imagined.


Chapter One

Her face. It beamed. Beamed with life. And I know that doesn't make sense. But if I had to describe her, I would first think of her face, and how, to me, it was more alive than a spring morning, more alive than a newborn baby, more alive than a pack of wolves on the hunt.

She was so beautiful.

How did she find me? Did she see me, wandering the streets of some random small town in Chile, holding my map in one hand and my backpack strap with the other? Did she smell me, a wolf out of his land, lost and fumbling for anything that resembled an answer? Or did she feel me? Feel my intentions, and realize that she and the great forces she represented couldn't allow me to create an imbalance?

Whatever the case, she found me, and I'll never be the same.

I was standing in front of a roadside stand. The sign read "Souvenirs," or, the old vendor's best attempt at the word, which came out "Suvenirs." Something in Spanish had also been hastily painted, and I assumed it was the same advertisement. The salesman had strategically placed his stand where the bus from Temuco – the largest city closest to the Maquehue Airport – dropped off its loads of adventure-seeking tourists. He must have assumed I was of a similar sort because he kept holding up a pair of binoculars and gesturing for me to come over.

I approached him, stepping under the rusty metal sheet serving as a roof. Or at least, a barrier from the sun.

"You buy, yes? You buy for trip to jungle."

The sun was hot, and my feet were gritty with sand and dirt. I longed for tennis shoes: I didn't pack any tennis shoes, just my Air Jordan sandals (a gift from Jacob). And other clothes more suited for a day at the shore, not sitting for countless hours on a rickety bus next to a fat, dark woman with armpit hair. I folded up my map and jammed it into the pocket of my cargo shorts.

Seeing I wasn't interested in the binoculars, he picked up another trinket in his reach. "You buy. Buy hat, for your head." I looked at his aged face, with wrinkles that bunched up around his eyes. He wore a nauseatingly-bright Hawaiian shirt and was sitting in a reclining lawn chair. Only his chest and head were visible above his wares.

"No, man." I realized that my voice had carried an irritated edge to it. "I mean, thanks, but no. I'm looking for – "

He waved his hand to stop me. "What your name."

"Who, me?"

"Yes, yes. You." He pointed at me. "You."

"Umm." In my mind, I heard Mom reminding me not to talk to strangers. I snickered in spite of myself. Somehow, the old adage didn't seem to apply to this situation. Nothing from back home seemed to apply down here. My money, my language, my clothes, not even my mom's advice. I replied with a smile still on my lips: "Seth."

"Seth?" He smiled and held his hands out wide, his palms upturned, as if he was welcoming home an old friend. "Seth, yes?"

"Yeah." My heart skipped a beat. Maybe Jacob had arranged for someone to meet me. Maybe this man would take me where I needed to go. Maybe this wouldn't be as pointless as it all seemed. "Yeah, Seth Clearwater? Were you waiting for me?"

"Hmm ..." he said thoughtfully. "How old you, Seth?"

"Seventeen, sir."

"Seventeen, yes? A man!" He pounded his chest. "You a man now, Seth."

"Yes, sir. I mean, sort of. I mean, listen. Did Jacob tell you to wait for me?"

"Seth, a man." He paused, as if in thought. Then he lifted up the binoculars. "Seth, you buy this for your journey to jungle."

"Dude, I don't want your damn binoculars!" I said, my voice rising. "I'm looking for members of the Mapuche."

The vendor stopped. Set down the binoculars. He leaned back in his lawn chair, and his face was obscured by the shadows of his aged straw hat. His jaw tightened, and then shifted. I swallowed.

"Seth." My name resonated in his old chest like he was beating out the syllable on a worn drum.

I ran my fingers through my hair, coated in dust and sweat. "Yes, sir."

"You go now."

Guilt tightened its constricting grip around my gut. He was angry, and I didn't know why. All I knew was that I was the cause. "But, sir, I didn't mean to upset you. I'm looking for information, you know? On the Mapuche, and what you guys call the – "

"Go back to America. Go back home. You not yet a man, Seth. Go back – "

Somehow, I knew this was my only chance. "I'm looking for the Libishomen!"

The lawn chair clattered as the old man pushed it away, rose to his feet, and shuffled out from behind his cart. He was much shorter than me, barely surpassing 5 feet. As he took two menacing steps toward me, I could see his graying chest hair and zigzagging skin folds poking out where the buttons of his shirt were undone. He came so close to me, his sagging belly almost touched my shorts.

"You," he rasped. I could see the black stains on his teeth. "You, get out. Go home."

"But, sir, I'm here to help, and I'm – "

He stuck his finger into my chest, and his untrimmed fingernail stung me as he hammered each word out. "You. Go. Home."

"Grandpa, grandpa!" I heard from behind me. Young hands gripped the old man's shoulders. "Grandpa, chill out. It's OK. Come on, go sit down." Gently, the hands pulled on the shoulders, and the old man reluctantly stepped away from me. I let out a sigh.

The young hands belonged to a man not much older than myself. He was dressed in a white tank top, dark blue jeans, and sneakers. His jet-black hair was tied back in a ponytail. He was tall, taller than me, but lean in the body. Grandson and grandfather began speaking rapidly in Spanish, or at least, something that sounded like Spanish. The old vender sat back in his chair, and the younger man gave his grandfather one last pat on the shoulder.

"You sure you're OK?" he asked him.

The old man nodded and shooed us both away with another exaggerated wave of his hands. The younger man took the cue, and I fell in step alongside him.

Once we were out of earshot, I said, "Hey, man, thanks back there. I didn't mean to upset him."

"Hey, no problem." He stopped and looked me over. "You're American, aren't you? What's your name?"

"Seth. Seth Clearwater." I reached for his hand, and we exchanged a firm greeting. "You?"

"Arturo Vargas." He studied me for a minute. "You want some water? Sit down for awhile?"

I smiled, and it took every effort not to appear too eager. "If it's not too much trouble, that would be great."

"Follow me. We'll head back to my grandparents' place."

"But – "

"Don't worry about him," he reassured me. "He'll be at that stand all afternoon. And grandma is out."

I nodded, and followed him through narrow roads. Alongside us, the construction of the houses ranged from colorful, square-shaped apartments to leaning adobe huts. Electric wires ran to some homes, while others didn't appear to even have running water. We passed by a few people, who nodded to us. One child openly gawked at us as we walked by. A few adults approached us, trying to sell little bits and pieces of things they had made from scraps of fabric. Arturo greeted many by name, his Spanish rolling off his tongue as easily as if he were unrolling a spool of ribbon.

After about ten minutes of walking, we reached his grandparents' home, which was a dwelling of many contradictions. The walls were made from adobe bricks, but a small television cast colorful lights around the small room. The floor was made of dirt, but a water basin with a new faucet was perched in a corner. The ceiling was so low, my head would have hit it if I stood on my toes. From my perspective, the entire place seemed to be made of two rooms: the one we were standing in, and a bedroom-like area to my left. There wasn't a door to the bedroom, just a hole cut out of the bricks.

Arturo pulled two cans of Coke from a dorm-sized refrigerator on the ground. As he passed it to me, he watched my eyes as I took in the cramped surroundings.

"Yeah, this sure as hell isn't Temuco, is it?" He popped the lid with a flick of his thumb and swallowed greedily. I did the same, until nearly half the can was gone. He let out a satisfied sigh and said, "And it isn't America, either." He leaned his long body against the dirt wall. "So, you look like you got a story to tell, Seth."

"Yeah, for sure. I mean." I found myself hesitating. After his grandfather's reaction, I doubted how easily I should say my true purpose for the trip. I decided to stall. "But you first. You're obviously not a native, either."

"Oh, I'm native all right," he said with a snicker as he crouched down and reached into the fridge again. This time, he pulled out a king-size Butterfinger. He opened it length-wise and handed me one of the two-inch chunks of chocolate and buttery, crispy layers. "Can't live without these things, man. Brought a whole box from the States." He downed it in about three bites, and I followed suit. "As far as my story, there's not a lot to tell. My parents, they grew up here. Fell in love, and Mom got pregnant with me.

"And, you know, Mom already had family in America, and she wanted me to have 'a better life' and all that. So they immigrated, to Texas. And before you ask, yes, they're legal. But Dad, he worked the fields with illegal immigrants for many years. Mom and Dad, scrapping and saving, while I was a baby, and eventually, we moved to San Antonio. They still work like dogs, you know, for the rent and everything. But I'm in college, at the University of Houston, and I'm majoring in international studies.

"But every few years, we come back here to see grandma and grandpa, and our cousins. We bring enough hardware and money to provide them with modern appliances." He kicked at the fridge. "At least, as much as they'll allow us. I'm here by myself this time, though."

He finished the last of the Coke and eyed me. "So, why not tell me what brings you here."

By this time, I was also leaning against the wall. I had only been listening to half of his story because, as he spoke, I was struggling to decide what I should tell him. I opted for a watered-down version of the truth. A complete fabrication wasn't an option: I was, and always will be, a terrible liar. "Well, I'm American, like you said. I'm from Washington state, in a town called Forks, which is close to Seattle.

"I'm Native American. Quileute, to be exact. And I'm thinking about majoring in history when I go to college, with a focus on Native American tribes along the American west coast. I think I want to be a college professor some day. Recently, I've become interested in the Mapuche, so I'm down here doing some research." I realized that I had been staring at the floor as I spoke. All of it was true, yet hiding any of the truth felt like untruth. I ran my fingers through my hair again. A nervous habit, so hard to break. In vain, I tried to cover. "It's my first time traveling out of the country, so I'm pretty nervous!"

I felt Arturo studying me. He pushed his long body off of the wall and folded his arms over his chest. "So." His voice seemed very close in that hot, humid hut. "So you're saying you're down here, all the way in Chile, because you want to research Native American tribes who resided along the American west coast?"

Shit. He was right, that didn't make sense. "Yeah, man. You know." I looked out the window, through the crack of the door left slightly ajar, anywhere but at him. "The genealogy. How we're all connected." I tried again for a joke, cracking a smile. "We're brothers, you and me, if you trace it way back!"

He hadn't moved, hadn't shifted his line of sight. "You think Vargas is a Mapache name?" he asked coldly.

"No, I mean, no! Not you, like _you_-you. But everybody down here. In Chile. Aren't most Chileans a mixture of Spanish and Mayan blood?" I was fumbling. It was obvious. I knew it, he knew it. But I kept talking. "I'm really into that bloodline stuff. Ancestors. That's why I'm majoring in history. Fascinating stuff, really."

"I'll tell you this much, Seth Clearwater. My last name isn't really Vargas." He paused. "Now that I've told you something, why don't you tell me something."

"What."

"Why you're really here."

* * *

Author's Note: So I NORMALLY don't write this Twihard stuff, but I promised. Oy. Loves to you, Ms. Temper.

I don't own Twilight. Or Princess Mononoke. Or Chile. Or any Butterfingers, at the moment (thanks to Ms. Temper).


End file.
